


Cake Batter

by FailureArtist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Force-Feeding, Gen, Homophobic Language, Imprisonment, Starvation, Torture, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailureArtist/pseuds/FailureArtist
Summary: Prisoner Dave Strider refuses to eat Betty Crocker products. "Betty Crocker" plans to change that.





	Cake Batter

**Author's Note:**

> Again: Dead Dove Do Not Eat
> 
> Proofread by chelonianmobile

Dave Strider hasn't eaten in the two weeks he has spent in the Buffalo detainment center. It isn't that his captors haven't fed him. Every day a two-tier cake is sent through the hatch into his solitary confinement room. At the end of every day, the immaculate cake is taken back without even a mouse bite. He drinks the water provided but otherwise consumes nothing. The cakes are the product of Betty Crocker and he has sworn never to let a Betty Crocker product past his lips.  

 

He has passed the point of normal hunger. It isn't just his stomach that is pained. His head pounds constantly. Even his eyes pound under the bright light of his cell. His skin is sensitive to every touch and his hard bed gives him dark bruises. His legs hurt but he can't stop from pacing because despite having no energy he can't keep himself still. He tries to keep his mind by reciting raps in his head but he keeps going to songs about Cristal and caviar. Thinking about his movies doesn't help with all the food jokes in them. He can't stop craving a hot dog with grape jelly on it.   

 

He has been hungry before, both as a child and as a rebel, but it wasn't like this. His meal wouldn't always come but when it did come he ate it happily. Here, his meal came regularly but it might as well not exist. In his mind, the cake is nothing but a giant well-used sponge soaked in Red Fruit Faygo. Sometimes he imagines rats crawling on it and he doesn't know if it's a serious daydream or a visual hallucination.

 

He doesn't harbor any delusions that the Batterwitch will be moved by pity or fear for her public image. She never had a heart and she has forgone her disguise. He can't say he doesn't hold hope that his sister-by-adoption Rose will save him, but for all he knows she could be dead. Possibly his captors will let down their guard long enough for him to escape but after years of perfecting their practice he doubts it. At this point, he is prepared to die. Virtually all his friends are dead.

 

Then, when he expects his thirteenth cake, the door that's been shut for so long opens. A juggalo prison boss is at the entrance and Dave can't remember if he's seen him before or not.

 

"Betty Crocker wants to see you, college boy," he says.

 

Dave wants to say he'd never been to college but he can't speak in full sentences. "Wh'tever."

 

The prison boss and two grunts go into the cell that could only hold five. Dave is lifted off the bed by his arms. He can't offer any resistance but he's flattered they think they need three people to escort him. He would point that out if he could. They spin him around and handcuff him. He's disappointed they are smart enough to put his arms behind him. Handcuffs, not the sexy type he used to love, are constricting on healthy wrists but now that his wrist bones hate each other the pain is magnified. After that, they manacle his ankles. A soft blindfold is put on his eyes and he gloats at how that's what he's wanted all this time. A cloth gag is put in his mouth. He knows how to get that off but he only cares in much as the gag makes his mouth feel dry. With a hand on each emaciated arm, they led him out. The door slammed behind him and after that, there is just the sound of footsteps in an echoing hallway.

 

After a long crawl through a hallway, the party passes through another door. The door tells them they have been accepted. Ten paces into the new room, his blindfold is taken off. In front of him is what looks like a test kitchen on a television show. On the other side are cameras without an audience. The test kitchen is white and chrome with accents of fuchsia. The set lights make him wish his blindfold was still on.

 

Then, her Imperious Condescension's anthem plays and Dave wishes he had earplugs. He used to love dubstep but now the slightest hint of wobble bass makes him sick.

 

The fake door in the set opens and Condesce bends through. She is wearing the red Betty Crocker dress Dave thought she had long since disposed of. Her hair is in the world's biggest hairnet, though a few tendrils peek out. Dave is jealous of her shades.

 

As she walks to center stage behind the island, canned applause plays. The grunts take their hands off Dave just to arm pump and whoop whoop along. She blows kisses to her imaginary audience before she addresses them.

 

"Welcome, everyglub, to Seassion 612ABD! Today, we have famed director Dave Strider!"

 

Her eyes turn to Dave. She makes a come-here gesture, and if Dave wanted to disobey he can't when the guards led him towards her. They leave him and Dave is face-to-face with the seven-foot troll. He knows her mind powers don't work on humans but her look is still disconcerting. She takes the cheap bandana gag off of Dave. He moves his jaw weakly.

 

"So, Strider, yah been a guest at this detention center for thirteen days counting, right?"

 

"Dunno," Dave mutters. He had figured there was only one cake a day but he couldn't be certain.

 

"And yah still haven't enjoyed mah home bakin'! Yah been too picky! All 'em cakes, gone to waste." She tsks as canned booing plays.

 

"Hate cake."

 

She smiles wide. "Ate cake? You sea-turtlely will."

 

She claps and a panel in the floor opened between her and the island. Up comes a chair. The unpromising furniture has arm and leg straps, a head-binder, and a lever on the side. It is padded but that brings no comfort. The guards uncuff Dave only to throw him in the chair. The Batterwitch uses her psionics to do the straps. If he could talk, he would mock her for not trusting her psionics enough. Maybe she thinks the tight leather straps hurt more than psionics, and she is right. He pulls on them, wondering if there might be a way to get out of them but he can't even begin to imagine how. When he is comfortable, she pulls the lever and he's rocked back. Above him is a mirror that catches the island.

 

"Now," she says to an imaginary audience as she sweeps her hand over the items on the island, "I have a box a’ Betty Crocker brand yellow cake mix, a cup a’ water, and vegetable oil. We're gonna make some cake batter! Normally, I'd have some eggs, but we don't want oar guest to get salmonella! That's a reel glubbin' killa. Don't wanna make this motha fucka sick."

 

Next to the ingredients is a blender. She takes the top of off it. With her teeth, she rips open the yellow cake mix and dumps it in. She tops it with copious water and oil before closing the blender. When she turns on the blender, the ominous whirring feels like nails through Dave's sensitive ears. Finally, she stops the blender.

 

She picks up the pitcher. "Here's oar finfished product! Lucky Strider here will have the first taste!"

 

She takes a spoon and scoops out a small amount of yellow goo. She presses the spoon into Dave's closed lips. He of course doesn't open. After that surprisingly weak attack, she pulls back and shrugs.

 

"Guess the spoon don't work," she says with a sigh.

 

She throws the spoon away and it clatters off. Dave stupidly wishes for a moment this will mean she'll put him back in his cell. Instead, she opens a drawer in the island and brings out a long plastic tube.

 

"Tank the Messiahs fo' tubes!" she crows. The juggalo guards and the taped audience cheer too.

 

She brandishes the fluted end of the tube in Dave's face. He keeps his mouth closed.

 

"Now, the more 'scientific' way is to thread this through yo’ nasal canal."

 

The few juggalos in attendance boo at this.

 

"But yah don't eat cake through the blowhole, that ain't right!" she adds.

 

She grabs Dave's check with her long-nailed hand.

 

"This is goin' all the way through yo’ lips."

 

A Juggalo yells, "Yeah, suck off that tube, fag!"

 

He knows her psionic powers can't move his jaw and he keeps it shut. However, she pinches his nose and it doesn't take long for him to instinctively gasp for air. A manly juggalo hand comes out and forces his jaw down. Then comes the fluted end of the tube invading Dave's mouth with its harsh medical taste. The tube feels even bigger than it looked. His uvula is hit by the end and he wants to gag but instead all he does is convulse. "Gag, gag!" the juggalos yell anyway somewhere far away. The tube snakes its way down his esophagus, mercifully bypassing his windpipe. Despite this, he can barely breathe. Every few seconds, Dave thinks the tube has hit its destination and a bit of relief comes until more tube comes in.

 

Finally, the Batterwitch declares, "It's all the wave down, motha fuckas!"

 

There is cheering and Dave can't tell which is taped and which is real.

 

The Batterwitch attaches a funnel to the tube and places it on the stand. She hoists up the blender pitcher and the cheer "cake cum, cake cum!" comes from somewhere.

 

"Yeah, cake genetic material!" she cheers back.

 

She takes the yellow-white gloop and pours it into the funnel. The gloop slowly drips down the tube, making the clunky thing even heavier. Finally, a Betty Crocker product passes Dave Strider's lips.

 

"Delfishous, ain't it?" the Batterwitch asks.

 

Dave wants to shake his head but he can't even do that futile gesture of resistance.

 

The gloop eventually reaches the stomach. The shrunken organ fills quickly. Dave feels full for the first time in months. However, there was a large pitcher worth to go. His flat stomach expands outward. His body, previously craving food, now wants to discard it all. All he wants to do is vomit and never eat food ever again.

 

Then, the pitcher is empty and the Batterwitch places it on the island. She gently pats Dave's distended stomach.

 

"Now you've haddock a nice home-cooked meal, buoy."

 

Dave can't answer.

 

The tube is slowly pulled up his throat and it isn't easier this time. If Dave thought he was close to vomiting this time, he is closer now. The tube seems even longer now. His entire digestive system is being pulled up with it. The tube hits his uvula and he's relieved. The disgusting tube is all the way out and he sees it covered in saliva and juice and it smells like vomit and he wants to vomit. Everything smells like vomit.

 

The Batterwitch undoes the straps the same way she had done them. Her psionics tickle. He can't bring himself to stand up but now he can shake.

 

His stomach feels calm for a moment. Suddenly, he convulses and the disgusting yellow-white liquid flies out. Some of it hits the Batterwitch. He feels victorious that his body rejected the concoction and he got that ugly red dress dirty.  

 

"Yah got mah dress dirty!" she squeals before adding, "Well, I have a hundred."

 

She turns around to the invisible audience.

 

"Come here tomorrow fo' another homecooked meal, wit' guest Dave Strider!"

 

She turns back to Dave and waves a finger in her face. "I am gonna do this as long as it takes, mark mah word, human."

 

She then walks off as if she wasn't filthy.

 

Dave is put on a wheelchair with no further bondage. The next thing he knows, he's back on his bed alone. It might all have been a nightmare if he wasn't covered in vomit. He rolls off the bed and crawls to the toilet to finish vomiting everything. The Batterwitch's "baking" is gone. It may have passed his lips but it wasn't voluntary. His vow has still been kept.  

 

He thinks back to the cameras he saw. His torture was recorded in multiple angles for the continued pleasure of the sadistic tyrant. Maybe it was all broadcasted. He wishes he could vomit up the footage.

 

For the first time since coming here, he wonders if there is something in the cell he could kill himself with. The cell is too well designed for that and he's too tired to think of something.

 

He tries to block the homophobic jeers of the juggalos with Rose's words. She always understood him. Everything she says, important and unimportant, he treasures.

 

He passes out thinking of Rose.

    

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the unhappy ending. There is no higher meaning to this. I wrote it because I had a dream where this happened (though in a much more prosaic setting) and I wanted to see if I could write it. If you want, you can donate to Amnesty International or something.


End file.
